Harry & the Pirate IV: Knave of Hearts
by geekmama
Summary: The Knave of Hearts, he stole some tarts and Jack's chef, Anatole, is furious. Written for the Dessert Drabble Challenge at Black Pearl Sails.Updated for the 'Pardon' Drabble Challenge at Black Pearl Sails.
1. The story begins

Disclaimer: Disney's****

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**_Knave of Hearts_**

"_Capitaine!_ It is outrageous! Three dozen jam tarts! _Gone!_"

A colorful Gallic tirade ensued, silencing Jack perforce until his chef paused for breath. Then he said quickly, "Anatole, you're sure 'twas Tom?"

Anatole fixed Jack with a gimlet eye. "He is _your son_!" A touch of rueful but, nevertheless, amused pride passed over the pirate's face, and Anatole reddened furiously. "I saw him lurking—and warned him not to touch them! Mon Dieu! They are the Governor's favorite! For his birthday dinner!"

Before the tirade could recommence, Jack said, "All right, all right! I'll find him. P'rhaps he's not had time to eat them all."

"I demand satisfaction!" Anatole stated dramatically, as Jack walked away.

Jack muttered, "Well, if he's eaten even half, you'll have your revenge right there, won't you, ye old devil?"

o-o-o

Some time later, Harry pushed open the door of her brother's library. "Weatherby! Are you here?" The room was all shadows and gold in the light of late afternoon.

"Over here, by the window, Harry. For God's sake, shut the door!"

Harry frowned at the odd sound of his voice, but did as she was bade. Crossing the room, she said, "Don't you think you should dress for the party? And have you seen Jack? I…" She stopped and her brows lifted.

Swann cleared his throat. "Yes, I've seen Jack." He nodded to his right, where Jack was seated on the sofa beside him, unable to speak himself for a mouthful of jam tart. Little Tom was seated on the Governor's opposite flank, also holding a tart, face stained and exceedingly crumby.

Harry tried to look severe. "So this is where Anatole's tarts have gone!" She pointed to the plate of evidence on her brother's lap.

Tom piped up, "Uncle Weatherby wanted 'em, and it's his _birthday_!"

"So you _stole_ them for him?" Harry shook her head. "I warn you, Anatole is bent on a terrible retribution, and it appears you all three deserve it!"

"Not I!" Weatherby objected. "It's my birthday, dash it!" He picked up another pastry and took a defiant bite.

"An' I came after the fact," said Jack, his voice still rather muffled. "Completely innocent! I swear!"

"There's two left, Mama," Tom wheedled. "You can have 'em if you won't tell."

Harry gave an anguished sigh. "Incorrigible. First theft, and now bribery!"

"A chip off the old block, ain't he?" observed Jack.

Swann said in measured tones, "There shall be no retribution, by decree of the Governor. Indeed, the acquisition and presentation of appropriate gifts is a hallmark of diplomatic practice. Tom has the makings of a great man in him." He looked down at his nevvie, who grinned at him. Swann beamed, then turned back to his sister. "Now sit down and have a tart, Harry. It's my birthday."


	2. The story continues

_**Knave of Hearts, continued…**_

Harry shook her head, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. "What a family of scoundrels. You are as bad as Tom, Weatherby! And besides, there is no room for me on the sofa."

Jack took this hint immediately and patted his knee. Harry did smile at that. She came to him, and in a trice was seated comfortably upon her husband's lap (collecting a slightly crumby kiss on the way) and accepting one of the remaining tarts from her brother. She took a bite, the delicate pastry crunching faintly under her white teeth. The jam filling was the perfect combination of sharp and sweet, the crust flaky and richly bland. "Mmmmm!" she murmured.

"Told you they were good," said Weatherby, and proceeded to consume the last tart with relish.

There was a quiet minute during which the siblings consumed the last of the illicit tarts, Tom contentedly licked jam from around his mouth, and Jack thoughtfully brushed a few stray buttery crumbs from his wife's bosom. She smirked at him, and presently gave him a jam-coated finger to suck clean as well.

"Mmmm!" Jack said, eyes wickedly alight.

The Governor frowned. "Will you two desist! Your son is present! Here." He handed Harry a handkerchief.

Harry took it, but said, "You've no right to scold, brother, after encouraging Tom in such behavior. Tom, dear, I'm afraid you really must go and beg pardon of Anatole."

Tom groaned, slumping, and looked to his father for support.

But Jack said, "Your mother's right. And, bein' my son, I've no doubt you've the wit to see the advantage of stayin' in your cook's good graces."

"How very true," agreed Weatherby. "And the ability to render a graceful apology is another hallmark of a great man, Tom."

"Come. I will accompany you," said Harry.

Tom, though reluctant to hide behind his mother's skirts, recalled past encounters with the chef's flighty temper and occasionally heavy hand, and elected to accept the maternal escort.

**o-o-o**

A few minutes later, Harry returned to the library alone, wearing an expression of satisfied glee. Jack and Weatherby, enjoying a postprandial libation, looked at her in some surprise.

"All's well, then?" Jack asked.

"More than well!" said Harry. "He seems to have inherited Weatherby's diplomatic brilliance, as well as your acting abilities. And his French is better than my own! Anatole has not only pardoned our darling miscreant, but has consented to make more tarts for all of us! And it was all Tom's doing, I give you my word."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Weatherby. "But where is the boy?"

"The Norringtons are arriving, and Michael Owens with them. Tom's gone out to greet them."

"Splendid!" said Weatherby. "There will be time for that exposition of swordplay you promised me, Jack."

"I'm entirely at your service," Jack said, rising. He peered at the half-empty glass in his hand, then picked up the decanter. "Shall we take the brandy with us?"

"By all means!" said Weatherby. "I'll get a glass for James."

**o-o-o**

Tom Sparrow was ecstatic. Owens had won his match with Charles Norrington, and then Tom's father, using a clever trick he'd learned when they were in Italy, had beaten the Admiral all hollow! And now, with sparring at an end, there would be a birthday feast fit for a Governor!

"Anne! Anne, where are you, you goose?" Tom yelled, rushing into the house and up the stairs to find his friend. But Tom's mother emerged from the sitting room from which the ladies had been watching the Norrington twins and the swordplay. She held an imperative finger to her lips.

"Shhh! The twins are asleep, Tom!"

"Oh, blast!" said Tom, more quietly. "Where's Anne?"

"She left halfway through the practice."

"Yes," said Anne's mother, Maggie, emerging from the room. "Will you go and find her, Tom? We go down to dinner in a few minutes and I've no doubt she needs her hair brushed and hands washed."

"I'll find her, ma'am," said Tom. "She can't play off her tricks with me. I know all her favorite places to hide."

"Since you showed them all to her yourself," Tom's mother said, with a smile. Tom raised a hand, acknowledging the hit. His mother laughed at that, and Tom grinned.

**o-o-o**

She was in the third place he'd looked – a hayloft in the stable where the new foal and his dam were kept -- and she beamed from her aerie when she saw Tom, and beckoned delightedly.

"I thought you'd never come!" she exclaimed. "Climb up and see! It's a surprise!"

"A surprise? What sort of surprise?" But the pretty little face with its halo of pale curls disappeared, and Tom hurriedly climbed the ladder. As he neared the top he said, "Anne, dinner's nearly ready and your mother wants to scrub you up. They sent me to fetch you. We can…" He broke off and froze as Anne and her surprise came into view.

"See?" she said, happily.

Tom groaned. "Oh, Lord, Anne! You _didn't!_"

"Yes, I did! Aren't they lovely? Tarts, fresh from the oven! Anatole had just put them out to cool. I did it all by myself, this time, just as you showed me!"

Far away in the distance (though not far enough), Tom fancied he could hear a roar of renewed Gallic fury and winced.

**o-o-o-o-o**


End file.
